by Billie Dale
On the walk home, he asked if I’d like to help him if it was okay with my father.
Daddy didn’t care so Pappy gave me a list of chores to do each day.
Three
MAZRIC
SHE LIGHTS UP LIKE a firework. Her big lips grow until they almost consume her face. I enjoy making her smile. She’s weird and I’m not sure I’ll ever get use to listening to her, but she seems nice enough. Plus, the chick has mad skills with a basketball.
I wave my right hand showing it’s the one I favor. She explains how to use my fingertips and jabbers about muscle tension and flexibility, using big words I’ve never heard. To me she might as well be speaking Spanish, because I’m not understanding any of it. Finally, she grabs my hands and shows me how to hold it.
We line up on the free throw line. I shake my head and move to the top of the key. “Nope.” She grabs the hem of my shirt and drags me back to the line. “Games are won and lost right here on the foul line. Perfecting this shot is where you start.”
“But I want to make threes.” I stomp my foot, pouting.
“We’ll get there when you can make ten free throws in a row.”
She’s annoying and pushy. “What makes you an expert?” I snark.
Her eyes roll heavenward before she slaps the ball out of my hands. “Some of it is from basketball camp. Like how to hold the ball, the finesse of control, and keeping your eyes on your surroundings instead of the ball. Practice is the key, but each lob is a balance between the angle of the shot, the force applied, and the height of your arms.” She dribbles the ball between her feet, walking in a circle around me. I’m mesmerized by her ability. Mom took me to see the Harlem Globetrotters once and watching her maneuver the orange orb as if it’s natural twists me with envy.
“Every aspect of the game is an equation. A lower dribble offers better control, a higher arch means a larger percentage of baskets made. Before the ball ever leaves your fingertips, know its trajectory and if it will fall through the net. If you plug in the right variables to the parametric equation, there is no uncertainty.”
She’s talking over my head and I hate feeling stupid. Frustrated, I throw up my hands. “Are you speaking English? How can I figure it out if I don’t get the words? Screw it.” I stomp toward the house.
“No, Mazric, wait. I’m sorry.” Her trembling voice halts my steps, plus I don’t really want to go inside to help Mom unpack. “I get too excited when I talk, forgetting people don’t enjoy math as much as I do. Here, instead of telling, let me show you. Give me one shot, then if you still want to give up I’ll understand,” she pleads, offering me the ball.
I huff but agree. Lined up behind me, her hands shift my hips, angling my right leg toward the hoop with my other foot inched forward. “When you become consistent, you need to develop a free throw routine. Like three bounces, wiggle, shoot, or whatever works for you. The method activates your muscle memory.” Her small hands guide mine. “With your height and weight, your best shot is here. As you grow, the math will change.” She taps my thighs. “Squat a little. Allow your knees to hold your bulk, feel it. Keep your hands loose but true. Bring power up your legs, through your torso, flicking it off the end of your fingertips, transferring your energy to the ball.”
This girl is nuts. To prove it, I follow her instructions and shoot. I expect the ball to wilt in the air. Riddle me shocked and awed when it hits the backboard and swishes through the net. I cock a lucky-shot eyebrow her way and line up again.
Swish.
Four for four, each hits its mark. Mom yells for us to come in, saving me from facing Sam’s I-told-you-so grin.
In the house, Mom asks how the game was, to which Sammy responds, “He has potential.” Grandpa snorts tea from his nose shaking his head, while Mom’s incredulous smile questions Sam’s sanity. After a quick snack they shoo us out the door, and Sammy Lee educates me on the proper way to do chores.
She’s chipper and maddening, telling me everything I’m doing wrong. I mean how is it possible to screw up feeding chickens? The pecking birds don’t care if you spread the seed geometrically safe for the best digestion.
Tucked in bed as my tired eyes fall shut, I swear I’d have a great summer if I never had to see her again. For the first time in months my usual nightmare doesn’t come. Dreams of being a Chicago Bulls superstar fill my head.
The next morning, I search her out first thing.
Four
SAMANTHA
WE’RE FIVE WEEKS INTO summer vacation. I was certain, after meeting, Mazric would hide from me for the rest of our break. Most kids do. But the next day he found me working in the barn with Dad.
I knew as sure as 997 is a prime number, we’d be together every day.
In the morning, we feed the chickens, muck out the horse stalls, and put up hay. We start early to beat the suffocating Kentucky heat. After lunch, we spend a few hours perfecting his shots until Carrie Lynn insists we get out of the sun. We stay outside in the shade or down at the pond. Pappy is teaching us to drive the tractors in the evenings, when he finishes in the fields, but I’d much rather ride on the side than steer. At night we hang out in either his room or mine, watching movies until we fall asleep. We haven’t spent a night apart since that first one.
Carrie makes dinner, insisting Daddy join. It’s been a long time since we ate cornbread, pickled corn, and fried pork chops. Dinner in the Gentry house consists of Daddy watching sports while eating a sandwich and I pick at a Kid Cuisine and read a book. I’d forgotten how good homemade food tasted.
My mama took off three years ago, leaving Daddy and me in her rearview mirror. She was never much for country life and hated our farm, even though we don’t harvest or have livestock. I took care of myself when she was here and nothing has changed now, except I traded my dolls and pretty dresses for grease-stained bibs and fixing cars.
Daddy wanted her to give him a boy. She didn’t even take care of me. If she wasn’t in town while he worked, then she was in her room fixing her hair or putting on more makeup like women in the magazines she collected. At four I kept the house clean, tucked myself in bed after a bath, and learned to stand on a step stool to make dinner so Daddy wouldn’t know how unhappy Mama was.
She kind of went crazy when he suggested having a baby, saying she didn’t want another kid to strand her in the sticks. When I woke up the next morning, she’d taken all her clothes and frilly things and left. Daddy didn’t know what to do with a girl, so I became the boy he wanted.
I don’t miss the dresses or hours spent styling my long hair. It was easy to throw away my Barbies, learn how to fix cars, and oil stains replace my girly pink nail polish.
Carrie Lynn is always in the kitchen making breads, cookies, or canning vegetables from the garden. Her pineapple cookies are the cause for me putting a little weight on my skinny body. I’m positive she drugs them to keep me addicted. Plus, if I’m shoving them in my mouth, I can’t talk her ear off.
Mazric and I both have televisions with VCRs built-in. When Carrie Lynn goes grocery shopping, she allows us to tag along. We’re allowed to rent a weeks’ worth of videos from the small store in town. Old man Clark lets us keep them for seven days so we don’t have to pay late fees. Since seven is an odd number we each pick three and must agree on the last, which ends in an argument every week.
One of my good memories of Mama is her telling me we can solve all of life’s troubles with a great eighties John Hughes film. Each day I would put my books away, curl next to her on the sofa, and enjoy the genius of teenage angst. I have tried to educate Mazric on this, but he prefers films with fighting and war.
The first night I agreed to try his, he educated me on Terminator 2 because he didn’t like Arnold as the bad guy in the first one, and it wasn’t worth watching in his opinion. Maz sprawled out on his bed and I curled up in his beanbag chair. The robotic elements were intriguing but not enough to keep me awake. I fell asleep halfway through, and though I was awake when Carrie
called Daddy to ask if I could stay, I didn’t want to leave. She covered me with a blanket, kissed my forehead before doing the same to her son, and turned off the television. The old farmhouse rattled and creaked, but it was the best I’d slept since Mama walked out the door.
Thrashing and whimpering woke me that night. A low, hurt sob only I could hear. In the yellow light of the moon I watched him writhe. Unable to bear his suffering, I crawled in, wrapped my arms around him, and held on until he settled before resuming my spot on the floor.
When morning came, I ask about his dream but he wouldn’t look at me. Red swept up his cheeks as he yelled at me to leave. I hugged him instead. He fought but I refused to let go. I held on so tight my skinny arms ached. “Friends don’t leave,” I whispered.
Rapid breaths shook his body and wetness soaked my T-shirt. His resistance melted. With slumped shoulders his arms ringed my waist in a rib-crushing embrace. When his hiccupping sobs stopped, we pulled apart. His sadness and fear became our secret. We didn’t talk about it nor would he admit his explosive movies trigger his nightmares. On those nights I protect him from his nightmares.
The next night I introduced him to Sixteen Candles. A fitting start for his introduction to Hughes. I gave up my girly possessions, but I still enjoyed the sweet satisfaction of watching first love. He groaned faking agony until he fell asleep on my trundle bed. Daddy wasn’t happy about letting him stay but allowed it.
Maz didn’t need me that night. He slept so soundly he snored. I watched him under the warm glow of my nightlight. After a few more nights, I knew we shouldn’t watch his movies but since we don’t talk about it, I let it go.
Last night we slept in our own beds, first time in weeks, and I hated it. But this morning is different. This morning I am officially eight years old.
I throw on cut-off shorts and a tank top before slipping on my tennis shoes. After a quick fight with a hairbrush and tangle spray, I wrangle my thick long spirals into a low ponytail as I bounce down the stairs and burst in the kitchen. Daddy insisted I be home last night, so I expect him to be waiting at the table with a surprise for my birthday. The big smile on my face falters when I find the house empty. No cake or presents. Not even a note.
Am I living my own Sixteen Candles? Did Daddy forget my birthday?
I march out the screen door, allowing it to slam behind me. The July humidity slaps me in the face, stealing my breath. At eight o’clock in the morning it is already blistering hot. Furious I ignore the heat and stomp to the barn, where I hear the muted sound of Daddy’s twangy Hank Williams music and the clattering of tools.
He spots me when I step around the end of the car he’s fixing. “There’s my birthday girl!” His shirt and hands already black with grease mean he has been out here since the crack of dawn. “Your gift is over on the tool bench.” He points a wrench across the dusty room.
I glance over and my excitement returns as I eye the big newspaper-wrapped present taking up the surface of his wooden work area. A giggle breaks free and I run across the concrete floor, careful to not fall in the mechanic’s pit. Before I can rip away his awful wrapping, Mazric sidles up, nudging me with his shoulder.
Carrie bought Mazric a Gameboy Color for his tenth birthday/moving present. We take turns playing it, but I want one of my own along with a truckload of Pokémon cards. On days as hot as today, we sit by the pond in the shade and play. I’ve been hinting to Daddy for weeks about what I want. Judging by the size of this gift, he wasn’t listening.
Still hopeful, I rip open the paper flinging the tape from my fingers. Inside is a red Craftsman toolbox with three drawers. Fingers still crossed, I open each, finding shiny new wrenches, sockets, and a bundle of clean rags. The others contain the same, except the last has a few new engine repair books I haven’t read yet.
“Ah, man,” Mazric mutters under his breath; disappointment heavy in the words.
“Just what you wanted, right? Your very own tools!” Daddy cheers. Wedging between Mazric and me, he wraps his arm around my shoulders pulling me into a side hug, leaving a large black handprint on my shirt. “And those books will help with the next surprise. Look under the tarp over there.”
I stifle my groan and his pure joy helps keep the grimace off my face. I force my lips up so wide my cheeks hurt. He pecks a kiss on my hair before leading me to the other side of the room. A quick nod of his head urges me to remove the thick off-white canvas. I step forward, grabbing the top; Mazric joins me. A hard yank reveals a frame of what used to be a car. No doors, hood, or trunk. All the windows are missing, along with the engine, and it sits on four flat tires. I can’t even tell what kind of automobile it was, not that I care.
“Mr. G,” Mazric shouts, racing around the thing coming to a sliding stop next to me. “This is awesome.” He hip bumps me. “Sammy Lee, do you know what this is?” His enthusiasm is often contagious but right now, right here, I fail to see the fun in a piece of junk car and a box of tools.
“Mazman, I told you to call me Johnny. And yes, Sammy-girl, this is a 1969 Ford Mustang Boss 429. At least it will be when we get it done. Which, by my estimate, should be about the time you get your license,” he says through a chuckle.
My eyes squeeze shut to fight tears. I wrap my arms around his waist, burying my face in his stomach; inhaling his motor oil scent helps me breathe through my disappointment. He’s never comfortable with long hugs. No, my daddy is more of a high-five, slap on the butt kind of guy. I only have a few moments to compose myself and remember I wanted this when I proclaimed my spot as his son, instead of his princess. My throat moves with a large swallow, forcing it all to the pit of my stomach as he sets me away.
“It’s great, Daddy. Thank you.” I smile, hoping he can’t hear my dejection.
A proud grin raises his mustache-covered lip. “Nah, it’s nothin’. Gonna be a scorcher today.” He wipes his brow, detouring from emotion. “You two go on and play. Do whatever it is you do.” He waves us off.
Mazric loops an arm around my shoulders. “Come on, kid, let’s go raise some Cain as my mom would say.”
Five
MAZRIC
IF YOU TOLD ME WHEN we moved here Samantha Gentry would be my best friend, I’d have called you crazy. Girls are gross and frilly plus she is weird. But I don’t see Sammy Lee as a girl. She is just the odd person I can’t wait to see every day. And talking to her is like reading a dictionary without the boredom.
She is not into dolls and she’s all for digging up worms as good as any boy, but she has feelings and wishes. She wanted a game system and her hints were obvious. Watching her fake enthusiasm over those presents and seeing Johnny not see it bothers me, but I can’t pinpoint why. Her gift is kick-ass but she works on cars every day. No eight-year-old wants tools for her birthday.
Together with PGP hot on our heels, we cross the grassy pasture to my house. Sweat slicks my arm where it rests on her shoulder but I won’t let go. “What are we doing today?”
“Doesn’t matter.” She shrugs, swiping a tear from her cheek. “I guess we could work on your shots more.”
I glance toward the sun rising from the horizon, a line of moisture moves down my back, sticking my shirt to my skin. “Nope, we’re going swimming,” I announce smiling.
Her hand slaps away the tears. “I don’t have my suit and I’m not going back home.” She’s pissy and I can’t say I blame her.
“Sammy, Sammy,” I tsk, “We don’t need swimsuits.” I wink, holding up a finger to tell her to hang on, I race in the house grabbing the basket Mom put together. Intuition told me Johnny would screw up, and I’m awful at dealing with her tears. Today is hers and I want to see her smile.
Ma meets me at the door. While I heft the heavy container, she jogs down the steps wrapping Sam in a long hug. I can’t hear what she says, but knowing Ma it’s good. Pappy left me strict instructions to not let Sam do any chores today and he demanded we be back at the house for dinner.
With Princess Glitter Piggle wa
ddling her curly tailed backside behind us we trek the mile down the lane to the fishpond. The picnic Mom packed must be full of bricks and I’m sure my one arm is now longer than the other. Sam offered to carry it for a bit, but I refused in some man-boyish grand gesture I’m regretting more and more as pain slices from my shoulder to my wrist.
At the water’s edge my cramped hand gives, toppling the baskets contents on the overgrown grass. A checkered blanket and plastic bags full of food scatter. I scramble to collect it all until I’m ready to present my surprise.
Sweat drips down our foreheads as the sun sparkles on the tempting cool water. I rip my shirt over my head, kick off my shoes and drop my shorts, racing into the drink in nothing but my Ninja Turtle briefs. When the splashing hits my thighs, I dive under. The temperature is warmer than I’d like but chilled enough to wash away the heat. I pop up, noticing Sam fidgets from foot to foot.
“What are you waiting for? It’s perfect. Come on,” I call, flinging water toward her with cupped hands.
“I told you I didn’t have my suit,” she complains. Maybe it’s the heat but I swear her cheeks are rosy and she refuses to look at me. “If I get in, my jean shorts will get wet and my legs will chafe on the walk back.”
“Why on earth would you get in with your clothes on? Take ‘em off. C’mon, you’re wasting daylight.” Her eyes search the ground as if a swimsuit will poof into existence. What’s the big deal? I didn’t care if she saw my underwear. To appease her, and because I want her in this water, I try again. “Look at it this way, smart girl. You were naked the day you were born, which is today. Will it help if I turn around?”
